


It Was a Dark and Stormy Night

by LateStarter58



Series: Sarah's Smutty Notebook [14]
Category: Miss Austen Regrets (2008)
Genre: F/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Sex in a Barn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-22 04:34:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17053244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LateStarter58/pseuds/LateStarter58
Summary: Young Mr Plumptre has been delayed by the bad weather and is need of shelter...





	It Was a Dark and Stormy Night

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first attempt at costume drama, and some clarification might be helpful: ‘John Thomas’ is a (somewhat out-dated) British slang term for the penis. And ‘fanny’ means the vagina, or that general area, anyway, in Britain, in case you weren’t aware. Little and Great Oakley are real villages near the North Essex coast, not far from where I used to live. I needed a place name, couldn’t resist using that one… The milkmaid’s dialogue is written in North Essex/ South Suffolk dialect, at least that is what I have attempted to reproduce. Just say it aloud and you should get the general idea. It may look weird to some of you, but ‘ass hew ‘ay tork where Oi were brung up…

“Blast it!”

John Plumptre could not see a thing. Not just because it was dark now, but also because the rain was falling so fast and so heavily that he could not keep his eyes open for more than a second at a time. His hat was useless, and his poor horse was whinnying, shivering and twitching so much he feared he would be thrown off at any moment.

John dismounted and began to lead the beast along the drover’s way, hoping he was as close to the village of Little Oakley as he thought he was. He had sent word to the inn there that he would be arriving tonight, but now he wondered if he might have to find a barn or byre to shelter from the storm. His employer, the esteemed solicitor Sir William Weller, had sent him to take down the last will and testament of Lord Goldsmith, the local Member of Parliament and squire in these parts. He needed to be at the door of Oakley Hall first thing in the morning, which at that point seemed impossible. The water that had soaked into it was doubling the weight of his wool overcoat, and his fine leather boots were squeaking and protesting as he tramped the muddy path.

A bright flash of lightning lit up the countryside and John spotted a roof just to the left up ahead. He held tight to the reins as his poor horse reared and shied at the terrific crack of thunder that split the air. Once she had calmed a little he steered her through the gateway and up to the door of the building. He knocked, just in case.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” He stepped inside and looked around, trying to hear above the racket of the rain. “Excuse me? It’s dreadful outside, might I take shelter from the weather?”

The only reply was the soft lowing of cattle. Dimly, in the half-light, he could make out the shapes of several bovines to his left, huddling together in the dark. His horse shuddered again and he allowed the mare to get fully under cover. The shed was warm and fragrant with the breath of the animals. The tall young man bent down and picked up a handful of straw with which to rub the wet coat of his mount, in an attempt to dry it.

“There you go, girl. That’s a bit better, isn’t it?” He was speaking softly to the horse, which seemed to be calming down. The worst of the thunder and lightning was passing away to the west now, although the rain was not easing in intensity. It looked as if he might have to remain in this byre for the night.

John looked around him. Away from the cattle there was a cosy-looking stall filled with straw. He and his horse could probably make themselves pretty comfortable in there, and it was dry and reasonably warm. He saw to the horse first, unfastening the girth and sliding the wet saddle from her back and resting it near the door. The little blanket underneath was damp but not _too bad,_ as his coat had deflected the worst of the weather from it. He tied her reins up to a loop on the wall and rubbed the mare’s coat again with more of the straw.

Once she was settled, he turned his attention to his own comfort. He removed his still-dripping coat, which seemed to be heavier than him now, and his drenched top hat. He set them aside on the wooden rails near to the door, hoping they might dry off a little before he was forced to put them back on. He sat down and tugged at his boots, which were as wet on the inside as the outside. He rung out his stockings by the door, and rubbed his own feet with more of the dry straw. He felt his eyelids getting heavy; he lay back in the soft yellow mound and closed his eyes, just for a moment.

*****

An hour later he was snoring softly when the door to the shed was opened gently and a short, plump figure slipped in. The rain had stopped at last and Dolly had run up the hill to do the overdue milking. Closing the door, the woman was stopped short by the unfamiliar sight of a large chestnut mare. It was in a fancy bridle – some passing gentleman’s mount, no doubt. Certainly not a farm horse. And there, by the rail was the saddle – good quality, too. And hanging above it was a dark green coat, made of fine wool. It was wet, as was the smart hat next to it.

Dolly scanned the space: there had to be a man in there somewhere, sheltering from the storm. Her keen ears heard something, and she peered over the wooden palings and into the vacant stall.

She gasped.

The moon was shining through the tiny window near the roofline and illuminating a vision of manhood lying asleep on his back in the hay. His fair curls were still damp and slightly flattened against his high forehead. He had a face like one of the angels on the wall of St Michael’s, the ones she looked at when she was supposed to be praying on Sundays. Dolly had never seen a man so beautiful. He had removed his jacket and was dressed in just his waistcoat and shirt, with tight breeches that hid nothing of his masculine charms. He seemed to be dreaming, because his hands were twitching and he was moaning quietly.

She felt her fanny getting moist at the sight and sound of him.

Remembering her true purpose, she set about her task and began to milk the cows. The young man remained undisturbed until one particularly stroppy cow decided to kick her. She yelped and heard a sleepy groan from across the way.

“Oh, hello? Is there somebody there?”

Dolly’s stomach flipped: his voice was as lovely as the rest of him.

She called out: “Oi is jus’ the milkmaid, sir!” She finished with Primrose, wiped her hands on her apron and stood up. The young man was sitting up, straw tangled in his curly locks, looking bewildered.

“I hope you do not mind, miss, but I took shelter in here from the foul weather.”

“Not at all, sir. Yer most welcome.” Dolly smiled shyly at him and was thrilled to see him return it. He bowed his head, still sitting in the golden straw.

“I am John Plumptre, legal clerk to Sir William Weller. I was on my way to the Bull at Little Oakley, but the storm was so severe I was forced to stop. I seem to have fallen asleep.”

“Yeah, well, ‘tis still fairly another five miles afore Little Oakley, sir.”

He looked distraught, and withdrew his pocket watch from his waistcoat and peered at it. “That far? But it is already so late!”

“Yer cood stay here, sir, if yer wish. ‘Ass warm and dry. Oi ken fetch yer hoss some feed. There’s warter by the door.”

“Oh, I think perhaps-“

“And I cood fetch _you_ some bread an’ cheese f’ra supper, if that’ll dew yer, sir.”

Dolly fluttered her eyelashes at him, and John decided instantly that his straw bed here was preferable to a long ride in the dark to a possibly locked-up-tight inn. Without waiting for his response she set off down the hill to the farmhouse and slipped in quietly. Her father slept on oblivious in the chair by the roaring fire as she wrapped bread, cheese, pickles and fruit in a muslin and tucked it under her arm. On the way out she picked up a flagon of ale and pulled the door closed behind her.

“This is a feast! Thank you…?”

“Dolly, sir.” She settled down in the straw beside him and watched him eat.

As he demolished the food, he stole glances at the woman. She was young, but he thought perhaps a year or two older than him. She was pretty, with bright eyes, red hair and rosy round cheeks. She had an ample bosom. Her petticoats had ridden up a little, affording him a glimpse of the white skin of her ankle. He tried his best not to look, as such a sight was improper, but his gaze was pulled back to it despite his best efforts. And when his eyes strayed there, impure thoughts flooded his mind.

Dolly shuffled a little closer to him. He smelled lovely, not like the cowman or the swineherd she had laid with before. She could detect soap and leather, and something sweet. She wondered if that was ‘ _callowne’_ ; she had heard tell of that. John seemed to notice her proximity and stopped in mid chew, swallowing convulsively. He appeared terrified.

“Are yer well, sir? Yew look a bit poorly.” She moved again, this time to peer into his beautiful face. He watched her like a started rabbit, frozen with fear. “Is yew cold? Here,” she shuffled over to rest up against him, “let me warm yew up.”

John had no idea what to do when the warm, soft, enveloping arms of the woman gathered him against her. She was kneeling and he found his face pressed firmly into the creamy skin above her bodice. He was paralysed with indecision - what to do? He was her guest, but this was inappropriate behaviour, surely? He did not want to offend, and now he was there, feeling her breathing and smelling the sweet scent of her, he rather liked it. He felt something happening in his breeches; something that had happened before when he thought about young women and in particular their bosoms. He tried to create some distance between them, but she had latched onto him now and was clinging like a leech.

He made an effort to calm his breathing and to release the tension in his muscles. As he did, Dolly snuggled closer against him and kissed his hair softly. Then he was aware of one of her hands pressing and stroking down his chest. When it reached the lower edge of his waistcoat he could endure it no longer. He grabbed her wrist to prevent any further impropriety.

“Please miss, this is not-“

“ _Dolly,_ Oi told yer. Oh shush yer gob and kiss me, luvvie.” Dolly pulled his face up to meet hers and slipped her wet tongue between his lips.

John’s eye widened. He had never kissed a woman on the lips. He had barely kissed any at all, other than his mother and sisters. This hussy was sucking all the breath from him and it felt… _marvellous_. Her tongue was exploring his mouth and at the same time her hand was pressing his gentleman’s area firmly. And the tingling, rushing feeling was intensifying. He had an overwhelming urge to push back against her hand. He did, and she chuckled softly into his mouth.

“’Ass me fella. Now, less see wha’ yer go’ fer ol’ Doll…”

To his horror, she was unfastening his breeches!

“ _WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!!”_

Dolly paused and regarded him, eyebrows raised, grinning. “D’yer mean ter say you in’t never…”

A blush brighter than a sunset flooded up John’s face. He had _never_ , no of course he had not! He had listened disapproving while the other clerks in Sir William’s office had discussed their antics with low women and common girls, but he had been saving himself. It had caused him physical pain, on occasion. He had given in to temptation and abused himself – once or twice or perhaps a few times. And his body had betrayed him frequently, waking him in the early morning with an emission on his leg or staining the sheet. He was mortified by this, but accepted it as part of growing into a man, in preparation for marriage.

But here was this warm, delicious, fragrant creature, offering herself to him.

He shook his head. Dolly’s grin became wider. “In tha’ case, luvvie, Dolly is goin’ ter larn yew suffen’ …”

She completed the unfastening and grasped his burgeoning manhood firmly. John hissed loudly, then moaned as her fingers began to squeeze it rhythmically. Suddenly, without warning, he felt her hot wet mouth on the end of him and he squealed like a stuck pig.

“Hmmmm,” she hummed around him, loosening her lips a little, long enough to say: “Jus’ trus’ me, darlin’. This’ll make ut better, ‘onest.”

Almost immediately he felt his balls contracting and the flood of his seed into her welcoming mouth. Unable to speak, mortified with shame, he allowed his head to drop back into the straw mound.

Dolly shuffled up to lie beside him, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She knew from bitter experience that if a man was a virgin, it was better to relieve the pressure a bit, or else it was all over in the blink of a one-eyed snake. The angel-faced lovely was still looking dazed and a bit humiliated, but she had plans for him. She let her hand drift down his flat tummy again, back towards that delicious line of hair that led to what was the best part and the worst part of a man. She felt him holding his breath and smiled to herself.

“Don’ yew wurry, luvvlie. Old _John Thomas_ will be wayken up agin in a flash, yull see.”

And she was right, the blood was pumping back into his member and soon, very soon he was ready for her. “There, see? Now, _Mr Plum Tree,_ let’s see how you get on with a fanny instead ovva gob.”

With that, and with little in the way of romance, she swung a leg over and lowered herself onto his erection. John watched, transfixed as his throbbing manhood disappeared inside her. It felt so incredible he wanted to write a treatise – or at the very least, an ode: soft and firm, warm and wet, engulfing and velvety, like some strange, natural muff, not unlike those his sisters wore in the winter. He closed his eyes and, no longer able to keep his head upright, allowed it to roll back again on his neck. He grasped Dolly’s hips as she began to bounce on him, overwhelmed by the pleasure of it.

“Oh, ooh, Mr Plum Tree! Oh yesssss!”

Now he understood. Now he saw the appeal of married life; to have access to this whenever he wanted it would be very heaven. But no sooner had those thoughts passed across his mind than he realised this woman was not his wife, and never would be. He was doing this act with a stranger, just to satisfy their terrible carnal desires. It was wrong, and he knew it should cease.

Dolly however, disagreed. She had grabbed his big hands and pressed his long fingers against her bosom. The feel of the soft, yielding flesh under his palms drove all other thoughts from his head. She speeded up her movements and he felt that boiling and swirling intensify in his balls and then, as she yelled aloud, he bucked up inside her, wanting to go as deep as he could to sow his seed.

*****

It was light when he woke, the warm breath of his mare brushing over his face. He was alone, apart from the animals. A bowl of milk had been placed close by the door, but otherwise there was no sign of Dolly at all. John dressed, tucking _old John Thomas_ back into his breeches carefully. His coat was mostly dry, as was his tall hat. He saddled the horse and led her outside to drink from the trough. He looked down the hill to the farmhouse; there was no sign of life beyond a thin grey trail of smoke from the chimney.

He sighed but knew it was for the best. There was nothing to be said between them. He slipped his left foot into the stirrup and rose into the saddle. As he regained the track he looked back at the byre and tipped his hat. He would never forget this place.


End file.
